Page 49 of Broken Trails
My eyes dart to the lamp, which is still unplugged. I didn’t want to end up here. This flat was always meant for Harrison. He built it for himself. I wanted my own place, somewhere away from the ghosts still rattling around this property. But Harrison insisted. Said it made sense, just until I found something else. And deep down, I think we both knew I’d never argue with him.
Not after everything he’s done for me.
After everything he’s carried.
I turn the ring around my finger, the metal worn and cheap, the gold long since dulled. I took it from Gary’s drawer the night we threw him out. I don’t know why I took it, or why I still wear it. Maybe it’s a reminder of where I came from. My quiet, permanent fuck you to the man who tried to break us.
Harrison doesn’t know. He thinks I picked it up years ago at some servo counter, or during that phase when I used to pocket things just because I could. But I didn’t. I stole it from him. And somehow, wearing it makes me feel like I’ve taken something back. Like I’ve got control now. Like all the years of terror andtorture can’t crawl out of the dark and find me—not when I’m laughing, or when I think I’m safe.
I survived him.
We all did.
“You hungry?” Mum asks.
“Nah, I’m good.”
She nods like she already knew my answer. She starts to leave, but pauses. “You know… you can talk to me. If you ever want to.”
I keep my eyes on the lamp. “I know. Thanks, Mum.”
She leaves, and I’m left with the quiet again. We’ve come a long way, her and me. But the softness between us still feels foreign. Sometimes, when she tries to be soft, I recoil. Not on purpose. It’s just… muscle memory. I never really learned how to be mothered. And she’s still learning how to be a mum. I plug the lamp in, and its glow spills into the corner of the room, wrapping the shadows in something warm. Outside, cicadas hum, the wind moves through the trees, a dog barks somewhere far off. Safe sounds. Sleep comes eventually. Not because everything’s okay.
But because the light is on. And for me, that’s enough.
18
Control (String Version) by Zoe Wees
Maple Street Bakery is the kind of place that smells like childhood.
Vanilla-laced pastries. Burnt espresso. Yeast, cinnamon, and butter, folded into every breath of air. But all I feel is tension. A tightness across my shoulders that won’t budge, no matter how many times I shift in my seat. Imogen coaxed me into coming. Claimed the kids were getting restless and she needed a caffeine hit. That it would do me good to try their pastries.
And, against my better judgement, I agreed.
I don’t fit here. I can feel it in the way heads tilt ever so slightly when I pass, in the way voices dip when I step into earshot.
My baby blue trousers cling in neat, tailored lines; my crisp white shirt nips in at the waist, all structure and no softness. Each tap of my cream Chanel ballet flats against the tiled floor feels too loud. Jeff mailed them up—along with my skincare—when Dani tipped him off that Liam had taken a day trip to Melbourne.
I’d given Jeff my apartment code, and he’d gone full scavenger, stuffing a duffel with whatever he could grab. Including half my lingerie drawer, apparently. The bastard. I could kill him. He even included the dress, unbeknownst to him, that I’d bought for my anniversary dinner two years ago—the one that never saw the light of day because Liam had cancelled at the last minute for a work trip.
Lying fucking piece of shit.
Fresh outfit or not, I still feel like the wrong puzzle piece—polished and pressed in a place built on scuffs and denim. Across from me, Imogen is the opposite. Effortless. Denim overalls over a white baby tee, a soft ribbon—pink today—threaded through her hair. There’s colour in her cheeks from the heat, maybe from wrangling two kids under five. She looks flushed, a little messy, completely at home. And happy.
Hope is settled in her pram, calmly drinking her milk. Joseph kicks his feet in a high chair, sticky hands grabbing for a toy in Imogen’s handbag.
“I do miss doing hair,” she says, swiping at Joseph’s cheek with a napkin. “Some days, I even miss the drama. Hair salons are wild, you know. But being with them?” She flicks a crumb off his shirt. “I wouldn’t trade it.”
Her hands never stop moving—adjusting a strap, brushing hair off Joseph’s forehead, checking Hope’s bottle. “When he was born, it was rough,” she says softly. “Postnatal stuff hit hard. I was a mess. Harrison—” Her eyes go somewhere else for a second. “He never made me feel like a burden. That man’sgot his flaws, sure. But when it comes to showing up? He’s unmatched.” Her whole face lights up when she talks about him. It’s in the way her mouth curves, how her eyes soften.
“You two seem perfect for each other.”
She beams at me. “Harrison would love to hear you say that, and he never lets me forget it. But… I guess things worked out the way they were meant to. Even when I didn’t want to admit it. We just… clicked. I thought I hated him at first, but turns out, I was just mad he got under my skin.” Her smile deepens; it’s more private now. “He’s good. As a husband. As a dad. Better than I thought he could be. And Michael—well, he’s been the best brother-in-law I could ask for. The best uncle, hands down.”
Something about the way she says it stirs a strange flicker in me. Familiar, but not in a way I can easily name. Like she’s unknowingly skimming the surface of something I’ve been avoiding—this quiet, unspoken shift between Michael and me that I can’t seem to define.
“You two seem close,” I say before I even realise it’s out.
